


Wish You Were Sober

by consultingidiot (seanceinthealps)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Based on a Conan Gray Song, Based on a song, Confused Sherlock Holmes, Drunk John Watson, First Kiss, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Season/Series 01, conan gray - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:49:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23207272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seanceinthealps/pseuds/consultingidiot
Summary: Two men were alone together in a small apartment in a massive twinkling city within the enormity of a planet brimming with billions of people. In a moment that was both star-shatteringly cataclysmic and elegiacally insignificant. Two men trapped in one dying star.A stupid, rushed little oneshot inspired by Conan Gray's brand new single - Wish You Were Sober - from his album Kid Krow which releases on Friday (I'm incredibly excited). For some reason, in the thirty/forty odd times I listened to it today I couldn't stop thinking that it just works for hopeless pining Johnlock dynamic. Enjoy my shoddy writing :)I'd like to think this happens anywhere between The Great Game and The Reichenbach Fall (so early Johnlock!). The case mentioned is from the original ACD books, its called Silver Blaze.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21





	Wish You Were Sober

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this at 1am so forgive any stupid errors. i just wanted to write and post something quickly because i needed a break from my main fic (which btw i would absolutely love if you checked it out, i can only hope it's better than this!) because its incredibly angsty and not really good for my own mental state at times lmfao. im working on it tho dw.

Fingers steepled in a rigid position beneath his nose, Sherlock drew in a breath. It was late, maybe one or two in the morning going by the moonlight that shone through the window, but he couldn’t be sure - he hadn’t moved in hours. The case was a puzzling one and required his undivided attention. For once John being out with some new girlfriend was a small blessing, as much as he would rather have John present. Sherlock needed to be alone. Needed to let his thoughts fill the small, warm room and hang in the air to be easily sorted through. 

Sherlock’s mind palace was whirring with activity, he travelled easily between vital scraps of information he had retrieved during the day. The man had been killed by a blow to the head, but the only weapon was a knife within the man’s own hand - which he seemed to have cut himself with as he fell - and there was no sign of the horse. 

A plodding of footsteps reverberated through Sherlock’s mind. They were real and approaching the door. 

Ears straining, Sherlock sat up. He did not recognise the rhythm of the newcomer - a client? Unlikely. They walked too heavily and with too much assurance and confidence; clients tended to be nervous, tentative. This person, with their clumsy, lumbering gait, knew exactly where they were headed. The front door.

Reaching for his gun, which lay across the room on a table, Sherlock pressed himself against the wall - gun poised and cocked. Waiting. 

The door swung open and Sherlock aimed, arm steady, gun pointing at the intruder’s exposed head. 

Except the intruder wasn’t an intruder at all.

“John?” Sherlock whispered, incredulous. 

Blinking at the gun still pointed at his forehead, John studied Sherlock with lazy amusement. The doctor smiled at the barrel of the gun, clearly not seeming to sense the danger he may have been in, were Sherlock to have fired immediately.

Sherlock knitted his brow, and lowered his gun. One sniff of the air made Sherlock scrunch his nose in distaste. The man reeked of drink and musty sex; the clumsy way in which the buttons on his shirt did not match their designated holes confirmed Sherlock’s theory. A successful date then, he supposed, given from what he observed normal people seemed to do in the events leading up to a prospective relationship. 

Only now Sherlock was burdened with the aftermath.

Perfect. Brilliant. He’d have to let Lestrade know the case wasn’t going to get solved tonight.

  
“You said you wouldn’t be back until morning,” Sherlock deadpanned, turning his back on John and tossing the gun back on the table, where it skittered to a stop by a pile of books. “I was in the middle of a case.”

John snickered. “Let’s just say she wasn’t too happy about me throwing up on her couch.”

“Right,” Sherlock said, awkwardly, “Well if you could avoid that if at all possible, I’d appreciate it.”

Taking a swaying step towards Sherlock, John pressed on, entirely oblivious to the detective’s discomfort. 

“We had sex.”

A heavy silence fell on the room, Sherlock staring at John’s bleary eyed expression. He swallowed, and began to reorganise the things on the desk. Moving items for the sake of having something to do. 

“It was good.”

Flustered, Sherlock dropped a book to the floor where it landed with a dull thud, emanating dust in its wake. The sound ricocheted in the small room, filling each corner with unease. Sherlock still didn’t turn to John as he picked the book gently from the ground and laid it back on the desk.

A beat passed and John cleared his throat loudly, attracting Sherlock’s attention. He whipped around only to find John just inches from his face, meeting his eyes with a vacant stare. Sherlock recoiled, stepping back quickly. John’s eyes were so blue, those of a cloudless sky, and the expression he held was so unnatural. So disconcertingly different to how anything had ever been. His hair was ruffled slightly, no doubt the work of a woman’s fingers coiled tightly in John’s hair. Sherlock shook his head, dispelling the unpleasant image from his mind.

  
Chest thudding as though Sherlock’s own heart wanted to tear itself from the human prison it was caged within, John stepped towards him once more. This time Sherlock didn’t pull back, he stood straight-backed and watched John’s intoxicated mind form what Sherlock could only assume was a coherent thought. John was grinning dazedly, his eyes fixated on Sherlock’s own. After a while, John spoke again, but lower - almost sombre in tone.

“Tell me about the case.”

“I-”

For the first time in living history, Sherlock Holmes faltered at the one thing he was good at - the one thing he could be trusted to do right. He was a show off, someone who jumped at a chance to explain his mental genius, and yet the gaze of an army doctor stopped him in his tracks. Sherlock was rendered entirely speechless.

“Go on, Mr Holmes, show me your genius brain at work.”

John was often inclined to express his awe at Sherlock’s intellectual prowess, but this time it was different. It hung in the air like a contemptible curtain and Sherlock felt entirely vulnerable to its weight. Sherlock drew a short breath, and caught John’s eyes flick quickly to his mouth. Eyes widening in panic and the odour of John’s warm breath in his face stinging his throat and eyes.

  
A garbled attempt at speech erupted from Sherlock’s throat; he had meant to explain the case. Had meant to fulfill the request that should be so dreadfully simple and straightforward, but he had failed. 

John’s putrid breath mingled with the rapid breaths Sherlock was drawing in and out. Two men were alone together in a small apartment in a massive twinkling city within the enormity of a planet brimming with billions of people. In a moment that was both star-shatteringly cataclysmic and elegiacally insignificant. Two men trapped in one dying star.

“No?” John drawled, tongue gliding over his lips, “Not going to speak? I suppose I can work with that.”

  
Stardust exploded in Sherlock’s vision as John pushed his lips against Sherlock’s mouth. Unsteady, John fell into Sherlock wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s immobile form, leaning in so far that they became almost one person. Their atoms swirled and joined into one, singular breathing organism. 

Thoughts reeled through Sherlock’s mind. John is not gay. He has explicitly said he’s not gay. What is he doing? Why? 

All Sherlock knew was that this - whatever it was, wherever it came from - was right. The second their lips had come into contact, a key somewhere in Sherlock’s mind has clicked into a lock and opened a door he wasn’t even aware existed. This was where they were meant to be; this moment, right now.

Both Sherlock’s breathing and mind settled into a rhythmic instinct, a hum that assured him that everything was exactly as it should be. Nothing was out of place - everything they had ever done had led to this point, the place they should be. Sherlock’s fingers threaded gently into the fibres of John’s hair and he allowed himself to be kissed by the only man he had ever felt human emotion for. The man who had shaken his universe with his unwavering loyalty and wit, who had uprooted Sherlock’s life completely and woven himself delicately into the picture.

  
When they broke apart, John merely grinned with the sheepish look of a schoolboy, and had shuffled blunderingly to his room. Sherlock was left alone, arms feeling strangely empty as the moon continued to shine through the gaps in the curtains. 

He stood there for a while, processing the events that had transpired. Moving a thumb and forefinger across his bottom lip where John had been only minutes earlier, Sherlock smiled and went to bed. He was sure they could discuss it tomorrow. Sherlock would get John an aspirin and cup of tea, proving his appreciation of finally having niggled the small unspoken thing between them out of hiding. And they would talk.

  
They didn’t talk.

Sherlock made the tea and watched the aspirin fizz in the water, but when John stumbled sleepily into the front room, he seemed abashed to find Sherlock sitting waiting for him. John raised a hand to the nape of his neck, and focussed his gaze anywhere but on Sherlock.

“Look I don’t know what happened last night, but I can only apologise. God, I’m such an oaf, I probably massively embarrassed myself, didn’t I?”

The glow in Sherlock’s eyes dulled with realisation. Despondent, he stared into his own tea and ignored John’s question. 

Last night, Sherlock realised, would only ever exist in his own memories. Never John’s. Whatever happened would remain entirely absent from John’s mind, for as long as they lived. Only Sherlock would possess the moment that had been so transcendentally meaningful, the moment that would change the nature of their relationship for the rest of their lives. And John wouldn’t ever be aware that anything had changed.

  
Life at Baker Street returned to normal. Sherlock never told John about it, had kept it locked behind the door, now realising that it was never supposed to have been unlocked. John continued to rebuff and rage at the assumptions that they were a couple, to which Sherlock could only respond in silence.

Everything was the same, and yet nothing ever would be again. 


End file.
